“There are people who have skills when it comes to opening safes.”
“Whoever took the stones came in through the front door without damaging the lock. He disarmed the alarm, opened the safe, and took the diamonds. I have a camera at the rear entrance but not at the front door. My security company suggested a front-door camera, but I didn’t think it was necessary. I was trying to save money.”
“Andy had a key?”
“Yes, and he knew the code to disarm the alarm.”
“Have you been in contact with his family?”
“His parents don’t seem to be very concerned. They said he’s always been a free spirit. He doesn’t have siblings, and he isn’t married.”
“And you want me to find Andy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I want the diamonds if any are left. Truth is, they were underinsured. And I’m angry. I trusted Andy. I want him arrested and sent to jail. I believe you get paid when you find people. Find Andy and I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
“Does Andy have a last name?”
“Andy Manley.”
Holy bejezus. Sucker punch to the brain. I knew Andy Manley. I went to school with him. His nickname was Nutsy. He felt me up at a party when I was fourteen years old, and he told everyone I stuffed my bra with toilet paper. It was a lie, of course. I stuffed my bra with Kleenex. Fortunately, halfway through high school I managed to grow breasts that were acceptable and only required a push-up bra on special occasions.
“I might be able to find Andy for you,” I said to Plover, “but I can’t guarantee that he’ll be sent to jail.”
Plover nodded. “Understood.”
* * *
It was six thirty when I pulled into my apartment building’s parking lot. The building itself is an unimaginative three-story chunk of brick and mortar. I live on the second floor, in a one-bedroom, one-bath unit that’s mostly furnished in hand-me-downs from dead relatives. I share the apartment with a hamster named Rex, and honestly, it’s all very comfortable. Rex is the perfect housemate and best friend. He’s nonjudgmental, he never complains, and he’s ecstatically happy when he gets an occasional Ritz cracker or a corner of my Pop-Tart. He lives in a large glass aquarium, he sleeps in a Campbell’s soup can, and he runs all night long on a hamster wheel, going nowhere. I feel like his life mimics mine.
I saw that lights were on in my apartment and Joe Morelli’s SUV was parked in my lot. Morelli is a Trenton cop working plainclothes. I have a long history with him and possibly a future. For as long as I’ve known him, no one has ever called him Joe. His mother, his grandmother, and my mother call him Joseph. Everyone else has always known him as Morelli. At present, for lack of a better word, he’s my boyfriend. He has a key to my apartment, and I keep a couple Tshirts and a toothbrush at his house. I parked next to Morelli, bypassed the unreliable elevator in the lobby, and took the stairs.
Morelli’s dog, Bob, lunged at me the instant I opened the door to my apartment. Bob is big and orange and overly friendly. Morelli and I don’t know for sure, but if we had to pick a breed, it would be rogue golden retriever.
He put his two massive paws on my chest, knocked me flat on my back, and gave me Bob kisses. Morelli shooed Bob away and pulled me to my feet.
“Sorry about that,” Morelli said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, he caught me by surprise.”
Bob was still in front of me, tail wagging, eyes bright.
“Who’s a good boy?” I said to Bob. “Who’s a good boy?” I gave him a hug and scratched him behind his ears. He snuffled me for food, didn’t find any, and went back to his place on my couch.
“This is a surprise,” I said to Morelli. “I don’t usually see you on a Monday.”
Joe Morelli is six feet of lean muscle. His hair is black and wavy. His eyes are soft brown and expressive when he’s feeling romantic, and they’re laser focused and unreadable when he’s being a cop. He was wearing his usual outfit of running shoes, jeans, and casual cotton knit sweater.
We were standing in the small foyer that led to my kitchen. I flicked a glance into the kitchen and saw a thirty-five-pound bag of dog food resting against a cabinet. This might have suggested that either Bob or Morelli or both were moving in with me.
“Oh boy,” I said.
Morelli grinned. “I’m guessing the ‘Oh boy’ is about the dog food in your kitchen. I need to go out of town for a few days. I was hoping I could leave Bob with you. Last time I left him at home with a dog sitter he knocked her down when she opened the front door, and he ran away. It took half the force to find him.”
“Sure,” I said. “How many days are a few?”
“I don’t know. Police business. I’ve been tagged as a witness in the Wisneski trial.”
“I read about that. It was a drug bust gone bad in Miami.”
“Yeah. I’m not supposed to talk about it. I heard you were babysitting Duncan Dugan this afternoon.”
“He’s FTA. Lula and I were there when he fell. I followed the ambulance to the medical center and waited for him to get out of the OR. I’ll check up on him tomorrow.”
“Dugan was operating above his pay grade when he robbed Plover,” Morelli said. “He’s a quality control inspector for one of the lines at the button factory. No priors. From what I hear, this was totally out of character for Dugan. The gun he was using turned out to be a toy. If bad guys were ranked by skill level, Dugan wouldn’t even make amateur.”
“That could all be true, but if I had to stand around all day making sure buttons were round, I might decide to rob a jewelry store. Were you one of the guys investigating?”
“No,” Morelli said. “I only investigate when there’s a lot of blood. I learned about it from my mom, because Plover also accused Nutsy Manley of stealing a tray of diamonds the same day. She heard about it at bingo. Jonesy is the principal on both thefts.”
“Plover came to the office today. He hired me to find Nutsy.”
Morelli’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. He hired me to find Nutsy. He said he reported his suspicions about Nutsy to the police, but they haven’t had any luck locating him.”
“Walk away from it,” Morelli said. “Let the police do their thing.”
“I need the money.”
“Do you get paid by the hour or do you only get paid if you find him?”
“I get paid when I find him.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. Chances of you finding him are slim to none,” Morelli said. “The police can’t find him, and Ranger can’t find him.”
Ranger is the other man in my life. Carlos Manoso, a.k.a. Ranger. Former Special Forces. Tall, dark, and dangerous. More muscle than Morelli but not so much that he doesn’t look good in or out of clothes. I’ve seen him both ways and he’s not a man you can easily forget. He was my mentor when I first became a bond enforcer. He was a bounty hunter then. Now he’s the owner of a high-end security business.
“Why is Ranger looking for Nutsy?” I asked Morelli.